About 10 A.M. appeared from the direction of Ujiji a caravan of eighty Waguhha, a tribe which occupies a tract of country on the south-western side of the Lake Tanganika.  We asked the news, and were told a white man had just arrived at Ujiji from Manyuema.  This news startled us all.

“A white man?” we asked.

“Yes, a white man,” they replied.

“How is he dressed?”

“Like the master,” they answered, referring to me.

“Is he young, or old?”

“He is old.  He has white hair on his face, and is sick.”

“Where has he come from?”

“From a very far country away beyond Uguhha, called Manyuema.”

“Indeed! and is he stopping at Ujiji now?”

“Yes, we saw him about eight days ago.”

“Do you think he will stop there until we see him?”

“Sigue” (don’t know).

“Was he ever at Ujiji before?”

“Yes, he went away a long time ago.”

Hurrah!  This is Livingstone!  He must be Livingstone!  He can be no other; but still;—­he may be some one else—­some one from the West Coast—­or perhaps he is Baker!  No; Baker has no white hair on his face.  But we must now march quick, lest he hears we are coming, and runs away.

I addressed my men, and asked them if they were willing to march to Ujiji without a single halt, and then promised them, if they acceded to my wishes, two doti each man.  All answered in the affirmative, almost as much rejoiced as I was myself.  But I was madly rejoiced; intensely eager to resolve the burning question, “Is it Dr. David Livingstone?” God grant me patience, but I do wish there was a railroad, or, at least, horses in this country.

We set out at once from the banks of the Malagarazi, accompanied by two guides furnished us by Usenge, the old man of the ferry, who, now that we had crossed, showed himself more amiably disposed to us.  We arrived at the village of Isinga, Sultan Katalambula, after a little over an hour’s march across a saline plain, but which as we advanced into the interior became fertile and productive.

November 4th.—­Started early with great caution, maintaining deep silence.  The guides were sent forward, one two hundred yards ahead of the other, that we might be warned in time.  The first part of the march was through a thin jungle of dwarf trees, which got thinner and thinner until finally it vanished altogether, and we had entered Uhha—­a plain country.  Villages were visible by the score among the tall bleached stalks of dourra and maize.  Sometimes three, sometimes five, ten, or twenty beehive-shaped huts formed a village.  The Wahha were evidently living in perfect security, for not one village amongst them all was surrounded with the customary defence of an African village.  A narrow dry ditch formed the only boundary between Uhha and Uvinza.  On entering Uhha, all danger from Makumbi vanished.